


on a dare she made herself

by paxlux



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Girl!Stiles, full wolf transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She recognizes herself.  Finally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on a dare she made herself

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, AUish. Yeah.

She stares at the mirror, the girl on the other side with wide eyes like emergency flares, her hair streaked black-twisted with blood and rainwater.

She recognizes herself. Finally.

Someone's blood drips off the tip of her nose (like a ski-jump, her mom used to say). 

-

He says, “I don't know how you get anywhere in that thing.”

She crosses her arms, chin going up. “My baby runs just fine. Beat your piece o' shit Chevy any day of the week. Can't drive up a hill, can you. Bet it corners like a battleship.”

He grins, but it looks like he's showing his wolf teeth, so she grins back, showing her human teeth (hey, they tear too). 

“Stiles, you can't beat me in a straight line.”

“Thank fuck all the bad guys wanna chase you in a straight line.” He smirks at her cussing and sarcasm, so she keeps going. “Otherwise, Derek, the big bad wolf gets eaten, all that speed wasted, all because your car can’t turn in a circle, not even part of a circle. It really has nothing to do with speed...” She makes a sad wobbly motion with her hand, big and out of proportion.

“I'll show you what fast is.” It’s a joke in that dry tone and she _has_ to respond.

“Oh my God, seriously?”

She rolls her eyes, but he revs the engine, teeth out again like he means business and she sprints to the jeep, keys in her hand, her baby springing to life, headlights on like it was just waiting, ready to pounce, so Stiles doesn't wait, throws it into drive and peels out. She puts Derek in her mirrors and leaves him there, laughing over the speed of her heart, thinking, Please tell me it's okay, never mind, fuck, this is okay, ride it out, this is okay. 

She can make the rules. Derek roars up behind her, but rides the bumper as she swerves in his way and she laughs, whooping as she goes around a corner because of course, the Camaro corners for shit.

-

A passing-through Alpha approaches her, stupidly, sniffing the air around her, his claws lengthening before she says, “Keep your paws to yourself and don't be rude.” 

The Alpha laughs, claws returning to fingers and he nods.

Later, she asks Scott what she smells like and he shrugs. “Laundry detergent.”

“Gee, thanks. Make a girl feel beautiful.”

She asks Derek on a dare she made herself, Erica smirking over a bottle of nail polish. All Stiles can smell is Midnight Blues as Erica swipes thick blue-black over a thumb.

He shrugs, says, “You. You smell like you.” 

Stiles thinks she smells like pizza and sweat and textbooks. Maybe that's what Derek means.

-

Scott says, “Boobs,” and Stiles says, “ _What_ ,” and Scott squeezes his eyes shut, waving a hand at Stiles’s middle before digging in his backpack and oh, her shirts are ripped down to her bra from the Monster of the Week (she's trapped in an episode of Buffy, she is, why oh why, maybe she can quip her way out of a dire situation, it worked for them).

“That's where that delightful breeze came from,” she marvels, then Derek throws a shirt at her as Scott blindly presents his lacrosse jersey, less gentleman and more _99% of the time I forget my best friend is a girl with boobs_.

She puts them both on, “sheesh, I get it, I'm too sexy for ripped clothing, there, ya happy, I'm swaddled.” 

Scott and Derek look relieved, so she scowls at them, this is their fault anyhow. Fuckers.

She takes a breath and inhales sweaty maleness, can feel her face crumpling in disgust. “I’m swaddled in testosterone. Even better. Great. Fantastic. Smells like a locker room. You’re both buying me a new Batman shirt.” She mourns and wraps strips of it around her fingers. She liked that shirt.

They ignore her. Double fuckers. She thinks the floweriest fabric softener she can find might do the trick. Laundry day is a day which will live in infamy. 

-

Something roars in the distance (someone, sounds like Boyd) and Stiles jerks, her knees drawing up, but she can't go anywhere. Derek is sprawled backwards against her body, she's holding him, his chest and stomach healing slowly under her fingers. It's all warm shifting skin in a disturbing way that makes her choke. 

“No horror movies for a month.”

“Stiles.”

She can't move, an arrow in her side pinning her with fire, the tree pushing hard into her back and Derek moves and she lets out a breath.

“Owie ow ow ow _ow_.”

“Stiles, shit. Shit!”

His forehead presses into her cheek and she says through her teeth before the pain cages her in, “Saved your ass. Yet again.”

He grabs her forearms and there's a sudden silence, he still has claws and she thinks, Rude. She's saved him, he shifts in the heavy circle of her body, and the pain rushes over her, she's saved him, that's all she can think.

Derek stares at the arrow and his teeth appear and she tries to hit him, “No teeth, asshole, I saved your ass, asshole. _Asshole_ ,” and he leans in, tears her shirt at the wound and licks, what in the blue frozen hell.

“Uh, Derek, what’re you, what—“

“Quiet.”

Loping footsteps as Scott yells, and the pain is making Stiles float on flat drags of tongue and her brain says, This is why you've saved each other.

Out loud, she says, “ _What._ ”

Then Derek kisses her, suffocating, and yanks the arrow out of her body.

(He kisses her again, three days later, as she rubs at the bandage, kisses her soft and slow and she kisses back. Her brain says, This is why you save him, constantly.

Out loud, she says, “Of fucking course,” into the kiss and Derek bites her when he laughs.)

-

In the dark after everyone's left, she asks what she smells like.

He shrugs, says, “Mate.”

Stiles thinks she smells like blood. Maybe that's what Derek means. 

(Hours after, they lie on Derek's mattress, her hair and left leg untidy over his body, his arm around her waist, hand on her hip and they smell like them together, so she laughs and asks again, three times, third, and Derek shoves his face against her throat, up under her jaw where he's discovered it tickles, the bastard. She knees him in the ribs though, reflex, and he groans while she laughs.)

-

(Derek’s at her mirror, covered in pulled slashes of blood, and he says her name, says, “Seen anything unusual?”

And she says, “You, you’re one truly unusual person,” as she tries to clean away the red to see if he’s pouring it from his body.

He watches her from under his eyebrows, which makes him look ridiculous, and it’s three in the morning in the soft yellow light of her bathroom, her dad down at the station working on the dismembered jogger case, the one that looks like an animal attack, and the Heathcliff of the werewolf world Derek Hale is getting red smears on her Star Wars pajamas. She sways a little, laughing in short bursts, supernatural blood rolling down her arms.

Derek says her name and she glances down at him.

And she thinks, What did I do to deserve you.

She almost kisses him, but his eyes are going glassy and she has to hold him up to finish cleaning him so he doesn’t look like something from the morgue.

“I should have you arrested,” she says and she means it wholeheartedly because what has he done to her. He falls asleep sitting there on the toilet and she wakes him, fingers in his hair, says, “Go sleep in my room. Dad’ll be home at nine.”

She has cleaning to do.)

-

Scott stares at her incredulously, like a surprised puppy. “Are you high?”

“Maybe,” she retorts. Sometimes the fear shoves adrenaline into her until she pushes through into a tunnel trance, maybe she does get high. Her hands shake with fear and cold and she makes fists. It's like a roller coaster and she has a love-hate relationship with coasters, holy hell, screaming because you have to with every rush of speed, fear highs and relief lows and the ratchet of tension, click click click click. It's only on solid ground when coasters seem like a good idea.

“Maybe,” she says again, “but who better to be bait. I can't outrun them.”

Scott frowns, his confused angry expression, and there's a crack. Derek's broken something, brushing splinters off his hands, and Stiles gets a surge of adrenaline, new and fresh, so she says, “I'll run to the warehouse.”

She wants to vomit. Smiles instead. Erica grunts in frustration.

“You, you, you, and you, head to the warehouse, then stand there and look mean. Not constipated. _Mean_.” The werewolves glare at her. “Allison, get comfy somewhere near there and shoot stuff.” Allison nods, hair falling in her face, slim fingers brushing it back. “Lydia, look for the core of the Whatchamacallit, the thing in the thing that does the thing, and—“

Lydia waves her phone. “I'll call.”

“Okay, bait.” Scott opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles mutters, “Dumbass,” because this is really the only way, shouts, “1-2-3, go,” sprinting on 1.

-

Isaac sighs loudly, like the little wolf-lamb brat he is as he takes out the 2-liter of Diet Mountain Dew and Stiles puts her hands on her hips, “What.”

“Gross, Stiles.”

“Love me some Mountain Dew.”

“But diet? You're so skinny, we lose you when you turn sideways.”

She pirouettes, says, “Screw you and the wolf you rode in on.”

Isaac laughs and she pats his curls as Erica yawns, “Mom, I want ice cream. And popcorn. And gummy worms.”

Stiles thinks she should be offended, “Should I be offended? Pack mom? Really? Just 'cause I'm a girl, seriously,” and Lydia nods, mock serious and Stiles is about to say _what about Lydia_ , but no, Lydia would eat them alive, so Stiles continues, “Pack babysitter’s more like it, wait, no, that's _worse_ , stereotypical _and_ I don't even get paid, oh my God,” and Isaac and Erica are laughing into a bag of chips, Boyd watching with an Xbox controller in his hands, Lydia smirking in candy apple red and Derek stands in the doorway, arms crossed.

Stiles flashes a smile. “Gender roles in werewolf politics. 101. Beeyotch.”

Derek rolls his eyes, walks away, but he's smirking too as she calls, “We’re watching Bourne, right?”

Lydia says, “I could watch that man kill people with magazines all day.”

“You and me both.”

Allison walks through the kitchen, her scarf still around her neck, and says, “He doesn’t need superpowers to do it,” and Scott trails after her, “So what, superpowers are cooler,” and Stiles sees the hickey on Allison’s skin.

She crams herself on the couch between Derek and Lydia and six months ago, this would’ve been some sort of fever dream.

She does feel really warm and light-headed.

-

She stares at the mirror, the girl's mouth wide as she tries to breathe, c'mon Stiles breathe breathe you're not hurt or dying FUCK you're safe look you're in your bathroom oh my God you're safe you're safe you're safe.

There are scratches on her arms.

Stop crying.

-

She's been awake all night and all she wants to do at this point is make Derek's expression change from doom to gloom, maybe something a little lighter like exasperation. (She hasn’t known him long, but she’s known him long enough to know he’s consistently exasperated with her.)

She blames the coffee, says, “So, know any good werewolf jokes.”

Derek barely acknowledges her, shrugs one shoulder, head tilted because he's listening for the Whatever New Monster With Claws is in the trees. 

“There hafta be werewolf jokes,” Stiles insists, nodding and hair gets in her mouth, so she puffs it out. “Guess I'll hafta make up my own.”

He might've squinted, as if he's in pain. Annoyed. That's something other than brooding.

“A pickle, a werewolf, and a priest walk into a bar—“

“ _Fuck_ no," Derek says, fist against his knee. Stiles smirks, but makes sure she's pouting when she leans into his eyeline (he's using his ears, not his eyes). 

“Aw, c'mon, don't you wanna know what—“

“I wanna know what it'll take to shut you up,” says Derek, glaring and Stiles grins, brighter than she feels, “A joke.”

“Oh hell, what, _why_.”

“’Cause you're no party.”

“This isn't a damn party, Stiles—“

“No shit, Sherlock, but would it kill you to—oh shit, a werewolf Sherlock, that's _gold!_ ” Stiles laughs, behind her hand, because they _are_ on creature watch and Derek's eyes glow halfway dangerous, halfway amused as the flashlight bounces with her amusement.

“See, werewolves are funny. Gotcha.”

Derek huffs and disappears into the dark trees and two hours later, he drags her through a doorway between shots fired, carrying her as she yells in wordless irritation and he shouts, “You're welcome, Watson.”

He’d figured out what the creature wanted, all by himself. 

Stiles is jealous (research is _her_ job) and proud (all by himself, aww). She makes him a certificate, authenticating he's a real live werewolf Sherlock Holmes. The frame is macaroni.

Werewolf eyes can't set things on fire by staring at them. (Research is _her_ job.)

-

She stares at the mirror. Bruise on her cheekbone (Gerard Argent, old sonuvabitch). Bruise on her throat (love bite where the meaning is literal). Bruise on her hip (diving roll stopped short by tree root). Bruise on her upper thigh (concentrated eau de Stiles leads to more enthusiasm with teeth). Bruises on her wrists (Scott who forgets his own strength when he's confused or upset).

She wears a lot of layers.

-

She turned her head and stared at Derek's chin yesterday. She said, ‘Is it always gonna be like this.’

His hand heavy possessive on her belly and his fingers twitched, like he wanted to dig in with claws and she understands the feeling, he said, ‘With me? Yeah. I thought we covered the mate thing, though I'm fucking crazy, you're seventeen and this is already six ways to creepy—‘

‘Seven, Derek, seven ways to creepy and creepier—‘

He was so uncomfortable, shoulder tight as stone under her cheek and she cleared her throat, said, ‘No, I mean all the fighting and territoriality. Monsters heading south for the winter via Beacon Hills, etc. etc.’

They both moved when he shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Would you rather be in New York?’

Derek sighed, shook his head, dark hair sticking to the pillow. ‘Nope. Too quiet there.’

Stiles grinned and put a bruise on his collarbone, watched it fade back into his skin.

-

She steals Derek's aviators. He can deal. They look better on her anyway. Lydia nods in approval and fluffs Stiles's hair, then turns back to the mirror to fix her lipstick. Allison smiles at their reflections. Erica kisses the surface, a cracked lip print left because she smiled halfway through.

“So who wants to braid hair and paint nails and talk about werewolves,” Stiles says and Allison laughs as Lydia groans, “No, please, anything but.” 

Erica hip-checks Stiles, tugs on the pocket of her hoodie. “Let's buy Stiles some hoodies that actually fit.”

“And less plaid,” Lydia chimes in. 

“How dare you, I am a _lady_ and a lady _wears plaid_ whenever she wants, as much as she wants, because _ladies do what they fucking want_ including wear plaid for any given situation—“

“And maybe some dresses, some cute skirts, show off those legs,” Erica tosses with a sly grin, leaning against Lydia.

Stiles glares. “Oh my God, I'll have you know—“

“I smell like wet dog,” Allison exclaims suddenly, looking so distressed, and Stiles laughs until she cries as Erica says stiffly, “We do not all _roll around in puddles_ , that's _Scott_ , we are _not_ dogs."

“Maybe he needs a leash,” Stiles says, lecherous, and they all smack her on the head, which only fluffs her hair more.

-

She stares at the mirror and she might look pale. 

Her best friend's a werewolf and Derek fucking Hale climbed into her bedroom, the sheriff's underaged daughter's bedroom, and she isn't about to go knock-kneed over him, in fear or want.

She isn't scared. Her life isn't a fairy tale. 

She thinks, Wait, yeah, it is, one of those extended cut ones, with all the blood and gore. The horror house ones. Not Disneyfied.

Her eyes are big, so tired from reading and sifting through truth and bullshit about werewolves and she licks inside her caffeine-sticky mouth, says, “My, what big teeth you have.”

-

Derek says, “Mate. Do you know what that means.” He looks like it fucking tears at him to say it, like he's going to be required by mystical werewolf law to tattoo his triskele on her at any moment. His and hers. Her parents were forever ('till death do they part); she's a forever kind of girl, she talks to her mom at the cemetery and knows, each time she cleans off the dead flowers and puts down new ones. Nothing says forever like a headstone with two names on it.

Stiles says, “Yeah, I do. I can handle it, I'm a big girl,” and the arrow wound itches under the bandage.

(Her shoulders itch with phantom ink. Maybe in a few years.)

-

Scott and his mysterious symptoms. She tells him, “Like a werewolf,” and the world jumps the tracks.

-

She makes a fist (thumb out on her fingers) and throws the punch (from the shoulder, pivot, like her dad taught her) and Derek comes awake.

She makes a fist and throws the punch and Scott comes awake.

(She hugs her dad, tiptoeing to rest her chin on his shoulder, and he says, “Be careful. Curfew tonight.”)

She makes a fist and throws the punch.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration/structure based on "Diet Mountain Dew" by Lana Del Rey, but that broke down rather quickly, so don't hold me to that.


End file.
